


Scarborough Fair

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Male Friendship, Paternal!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt:<br/>Paternal Lestrade: Lestrade singing Sherlock to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarborough Fair

It is 3 AM on the seventh and - thank God - last day that they are working this case and Greg Lestrade has just informed his superintendent that the serial killer is under lock and key. As soon as he can scrounge up the energy he is getting up and then he will go home where there is a BED - glorious thought! - and a hot shower and food. He isn't entirely sure that he still has the energy for all three but he really doesn't care so long as sleeping figures into it somewhere and - 

His office door bangs open, almost startling Greg out of his chair where he had maybe been nodding off a little and Sherlock Holmes storms in, all billowing coat, sharp cheekbones and nervous energy.

Greg groans: "Sherlock, what do you want?"

Sherlock just glares at him and paces up and down in front of Greg's desk. He is very pale and has deep shadows under his eyes and Greg is suddenly sure that this extraordinary (and deeply annoying) young man who has just helped him catch his first serial killer hasn't slept or eaten in days.

He sighs tiredly. “Seriously, Sherlock, I am – hell, all of Scotland Yard is extremely grateful for your help. But the case is closed. We got him. Go home. Sleep. Eat something.”

Sherlock whirls around and stares at him for a moment before looking away, swallowing visibly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. And then, suddenly, incongruously, he asks: “Would you like to go and have something to eat? Indian maybe?”

Greg is stunned for a moment and then he realises exactly where he has seen that facial expression before and his heart sinks. This mix of wide eyed terror, nervous exhaustion and steely resolve is precisely what he had seen on his own face in the mirror during the three days of his first murder investigation. He is suddenly reminded of the fact that Sherlock is only 25 and, while he has amassed an astonishing knowledge of criminology, this is also the first murder case in which he was ever really involved. He hadn't shown any signs of shock or horror at any of the admittedly gruesome crime scenes and Greg had spent some time worriedly asking himself whether he might actually be dealing with a bona fide sociopath but at this moment it is quite obvious that the case has not left Sherlock unaffected.

Greg resists the urge to slam his forehead onto his desk through an enormous application of will power because he knows, he KNOWS he can't leave Sherlock alone with this. He has seen how the guy lives and he is pretty sure he doesn't actually have any friends and the idea of letting him return alone to that stinking hole of a flat with the memory of five flayed corpses fresh in his mind goes against every instinct Greg has as a supervisor and parent. Not that he is either to Sherlock but it is not like you can turn those habits off, goddamn.

He clears his throat, stands up, grabs his coat and says: “There is a pretty good Indian places across the street from my flat. We can get take away.”

For a second there is a flicker of relief in Sherlock's gaze and then he looks away, executes a stunning about-turn with his coat tails flying around him and strides out of the office in front of Greg. Greg assumes this is a yes.

Two hours later they have finished their curries – which Sherlock declared sub-par, of course – and are sprawled on Greg's couch finishing the last of a cheap bottle of white wine he had by luck had stored in the fridge. Sherlock looks less on edge and some of that nervous energy is gone but there is still an underlying tension to his long limbs and he keeps chewing on his bottom lip. 

Greg decides it's time for bed and gathers up their take away containers and plates, heading for the kitchen. He dumps them in the sink and calls out:”I'm gonna rinse the dishes, do you want to take a shower in the meantime?”

Sherlock jerks up, as if he had been lost in thought, blinks several times and then unfolds himself from the couch and comes into the kitchen.

“You think – I can stay here?”

He sounds so surprised and so hopeful at the same time that Greg feels a familiar surge of protectiveness. Tousled, blinking and oddly vulnerable as he is standing in the door frame he looks so much like one of Greg's kids, any of them when they are ready to drop off to sleep, that he has to consciously stamp on the urge to reach over and ruffle Sherlock's hair.

Instead he just says “Sure. Towels are next to the shower” and concentrates on scrubbing dried chutney off of the plates. By the time the dishes are done he is so tired he can hardly stand and so he stumbles into the shower and then into his bedroom and it is only when he has pulled on some boxers and a t-shirt and folds back the duvet to crawl in that he realises that the bed is already occupied.

“Sherlock?”

“I tried your couch but it is....short.”

Greg blinks for a moment but has to concede the point. He didn't buy the couch expecting lanky geniuses to come and sleep over. Also his bed is big enough and right now he is so tired he really doesn't care.

“Right then, move over.”

He slides in and they spend some time arranging themselves under the single duvet. It isn't really big enough for two people and usually Greg would mind but right now all he can think about is sleep, blessed sleep, he is finally so close and his eyes are falling shut and his breathing evens out and he is just about to slip into merciful unconsciousness - when Sherlock next to him gives a little start, holds his breath for a bit and then turns over. Greg grits his teeth, turns around again and is just about to sink under again when the same thing happens.

“For God's sake Sherlock! Stop bloody moving about!” There is a beat of silence and then Sherlock clears his throat.

“I'm sorry. It just....I can't help but see their faces whenever I close my eyes.”

Greg resists the urge groan out loud. He sympathises with the guy, he really does, he is just so bloody _tired_. He turns over and looks at Sherlock who is blinking at him from the small space between the duvet and the tumbling black curls that obscure his forehead. He looks about five and like he really just wants a cuddle but would rather die than ask for it. But Greg has limits. Letting young, traumatised consulting detectives sleep in his bed is one thing, cuddling them is something else entirely.

“Just try to think of something else. Imagine yourself in your favourite spot or something.”

That earns him a withering glare.

“I already tried that. If that or guided meditation or counting sheep or mindfulness exercises helped at all, don't you think I would have slept at least once during the last week?”

Greg winces. He had assumed that Sherlock hadn't exactly gotten a lot of sleep but not sleeping at all for seven days is really pushing into psychotic break territory. If he had sleeping pills at home he would offer them but he rarely needs them. Other than that the only thing he can think of is – oh bloody hell. He would ordinarily be embarrassed but a) Sherlock really isn't big on social conventions anyway and b) he is at the stage where he would probably sell his left kidney to get a few hours of sleep.

“All right then, we will try the Lestrade method. But if you ever, ever tell anyone about this I swear to God, you will never see one of my crime scenes again. Got it?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “Yes.”

“Good.”

And Greg reaches over to gently place once of his hands over Sherlock's eyes, clears his throat and begins to sing in a quiet, smooth baritone:

“Are you going to Scarborough Fair...”

It isn't really a lullaby but both he and Angela had liked it and found its many stanzas a good way to sing both Gemma and Phillip to sleep. Sherlock stiffens for a moment under Greg's hand but then he relaxes perceptibly. By the time Greg has gotten to “Tell him to plough it with a ram's horn” Sherlock is fast asleep next to him. Greg lets his voice trail off and cautiously removes his hand but Sherlock sleeps on peacefully. With a sigh Greg closes his eyes and is soon fast asleep as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Singing Scarborough Fair and places a hand over her eyes was the absolutely foolproof method to get my little goddaughter to sleep so I thought it would probably work on Sherlock as well.


End file.
